When my NaNoWriMo buddy and colleague-in-ink asked me what
the first book that gave me a bone-deep jealousy for someone else’s writing
skills was, a single thought resonated through my mind like a Tibetan temple
bell rung by a monk newly introduced to speed.

I fucking hate Matthew Reilly.

It didn’t start out like that. When I had my first taste of
his story-telling style I found it not just palatable, but quite easy to
devour. His simplistic style lends itself so well to the action-thriller genre
that he achieves something not many writers pull off successfully: he creates
pace. Not just in terms of the story, but also how quickly you read each line,
each paragraph, each chapter, until the book vanishes into the wee hours of the
night. It is a neat trick, and something I’m certainly envious of.

But after I’d digested a few books, I started to realise
something. It was around about the hundred-and-fiftieth time I’d read that
someone got shot and their head exploded in a fountain of blood like an
over-ripe melon. And as I sat there wondering if anyone was ever going to die
without their head exploding in a fountain of blood like an over-ripe melon, it
occurred to me that, well, dare I say it? Matthew Reilly really isn’t that
great a writer.

And that pissed me off.

Writing, or maybe
more importantly, being read, had always been the seemingly unachievable dream.
I grew up reading King and Barker, Masterton and Lumley, Tolkien, Eddings and
Salvatore. How the hell could I possibly aspire to sit on the same shelf as any
of them?

And here was Reilly; best-seller, hundreds of thousands of
copies sold, discussing movie rights, with a writing style that, by his own
admittance, earned him countless rejections from editors everywhere. I couldn’t
believe it. I started thinking my creative writing assignment for ninth-grade
English class could probably get published if his stuff could. I mean, if he
could do it, why couldn’t I?

That’s why I love Matthew Reilly.

To me, Matthew Reilly is the embodiment of my belief that
writing is a skill that gets us past editors, but it’s the story that connects us with readers. Anyone can learn to write
well; story-telling, however, is a gift, and you either have it or you don’t.
He has it, and whether you love or hate his work, there is no arguing with his
success, and his connection to his readers. To me, that’s what writing is all
about: telling a story, and sharing it with others. And while the big names
will always be the ones I gaze upon with admiration and devotion from my place
beneath their pedestals, it’s the Matthew Reilly’s of the world that continue
to inspire me to keep chasing my own dream.

You should come too. There’s plenty of room, and it promises
to be a hell of a trip.

***

Raymond Gates is an Aboriginal Australian writer whose
dreams mostly belong in the dark fiction and horror realm. He has published
several short stories including The Little Red Man in Ticonderoga Press’
Australian vampire anthology, Dead Red Heart. He continues to write short
fiction and threatens to write a novel. Look into his mind at: http://raymondgates.com, and follow his
journey via:

My Links

About Me

Born in 1985, Talitha is a geeky Australian writer who spends an unhealthy amount of time reading and watching horror movies. She also loves fresh water shrimps and snakes, and lives in a house dominated by various tanks housing both. She advises that shrimps are the best companions for writers; as they always look like they are typing. Snakes, on the other hand, simply knock everything off your desk—including keyboards, mugs, entire computers and shrimp tanks.
Talitha’s other interests include entomology, rock climbing, reading, web design, photography and video gaming.